


Dropping By

by Zen_monk



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Awkward Crush, F/F, Female Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Jessica Jones (TV) Spoilers, Love Confessions, Love Epiphany, Male-Female Friendship, POV Jessica Jones, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:28:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zen_monk/pseuds/Zen_monk
Summary: Memories chase and people change, but one person remain constant.





	Dropping By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brocanteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/gifts).



Footsteps walking on floorboards. The squeak of the faucet being turned on and the water running. A draught blew whistling in from a window that wasn’t closed all the way, running a chill through her clothes and hair. 

 

Jessica woke up to a pounding headache and a dry mouth. 

 

She was at her desk again, her forehead on the edge of the laptop which she could definitely feel an imprint on her skin when she lifted it. Her arms ached and cracked when she lifted her head up, but her shoulders suffered the worst from being in one place for too long. She wiped the dry trail of drool from her mouth and blinked blearily in front of her. 

 

A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The black screen of her computer. Mail and bills lying in a mounting pile on the side. Some of that pile slid down to the floor sometime last night… or days ago. She was wearing short sleeves, like a chump, and it can’t have been from the draught. 

 

Footsteps in front of her. 

 

“I got you some peanut butter,” said Malcolm as he passed by from the kitchen, no doubt on his way to the bathroom. 

 

Jessica remained seated at her desk and glared at the door frame from whence he appeared; she was thinking up a snappy comeback about deja vu and peanut butter, but getting some ibuprofen comes first. 

 

She lumbered across the room to make her way into the kitchen. There were piles of dust on the tiles from the new drywall that was constructed, and the smell of adhesives, glue, and all manner of repair lingered in the kitchen even with an open window she set up everyday. Everyday was a living reminder, for herself and for Trish whenever she visited, that Simpson was officially the worst boyfriend that Trish ever dragged from the rain. 

 

_ At least the breakup paid for the kitchen, whoever those untraceable fairy god-government agents were. _

 

Proving that Malcolm wasn’t some kind of peanut butter apparition, cloth shopping bags were propped up on the kitchen table and counter, with a gallon of milk, leafy greens, and boxes peaking out from what she assumes was a hemp bag. She looked through another bag and saw a pair of Jiffy peanut butter jars wrapped in plastic. 

 

She turned around when she heard him approach. 

 

“You got me the crunchy kind?” she asked.

 

He wiped his hands on his shirt and shrugged. “Not here for the discourse, but crunchy is the only kind that matters. And, uh, sorry but I used the last rolls of toilet paper. I’ll just grab a roll from my room.” 

 

Jessica placed the jar down and went to her cupboards. 

 

“You’re not my assistant, Malcolm.” She reached for the faucet before Malcolm handed a water filter jug to her. She stared at it, then at Malcolm, and she took it by the handle. 

 

“...Was this always here?” she asked as she poured. 

 

“Nah, it’s mine. I already had one but my mom sent me a new one by Amazon. So I’m giving it to you.” 

 

“Was about to say, getting a new one would be overkilling the gratitude thing. It’s not like you cleaned me out of that many peanut butter.” 

 

She took a swig and downed the glass in one go. Already, her head was feeling better and her mind clearer. 

 

Malcolm sighed, pointedly. “Trish has been texting me about you.” 

 

Jessica scrunched her face in equal measures of disgust and confusion. “What?” 

 

He shrugged, which he does when put on the spot back when he was a user. Jessica wondered if there were old habits from her that still remained even though everything has changed supposedly for the better. “Just stuff like how you’ve been and how’s Alias Investigations been. I told her you’re taking on cases. That you’re busy.” 

 

She looked aside, thinking. “And so she’s been telling you to get me groceries? Maybe do some housekeeping and paying you to babysit me?”

 

Malcolm made his own stink face at her. “Man, you wish. I can barely remember a time when your office isn’t in need of cleaning up, and finding only a bottle of vodka in the fridge when organizing your office does not inspire confidence for optimal job performance.” 

 

“I-” she began defensively before considering it. She remembered the cleanup from the builders, the landlord coming up with bills and forms with their judgmental fish face, and when the water was still not running properly in the bathroom. She remembered weeks of eating out with Trish, takeout with Malcolm, and being busy taking to the streets for Hogarth when the Kilgrave hearings were ongoing. Still going on, as the news, the radio, and the podcasts list still talked about it for months now, and it was like the whole Kilgrave investigation never finished. 

 

Jessica sighed, put down her cup and refilled the jug. “...Thanks, Malcolm,” she said softly. 

 

He sighed, his face relaxing. “You’re welcome. I’ll be back with that toilet paper roll.” 

 

He moved out of the kitchen, and she heard her front door open and closed gently. She thought wryly that he might be afraid that he’ll break it if he closed it with any force. Or out of consideration, knowing that sudden, forceful noise would trigger any of the neighbors here of any possibility of ill-intent. Some folks have actually moved out after the events with Simpson, knowing it to be just way too much for any typical New York City night. 

 

She packed the milk and groceries in the fridge, not wanting to get back to work just yet. She looked at the dust and the debris still on the floor, and recalled that Malcolm said she’s welcome to his broom and vacuum if she needed it. 

 

_ Even doing just ten minutes of cleaning a day does more for your mind than booze, he had said. Then I said to stop quoting that ebook or it’s bye-bye Kindle as it flies to the Potomac. _

 

The guy then actually lent it to her on her Kindle app. 

 

She looked outside the window and saw the sun high in the sky. She must have slept through most of the morning. Hopefully there wasn’t anything important she was supposed to do.

 

At her desk, she scowled at her dead phone and hunted for the power cord. 

 

Her laptop was likewise dead. 

 

_ Please, auto-save gods, pull through for me. _

 

She checked her phone again, waiting for it to boot up. Immediately the screen prompted a waterfall of notifications. Texts. Emails. News spam. Headlines about a night spot in Harlem. Headlines about Hell’s Kitchen and Fisk hearings. International news about the Avengers. Continuing construction of New York as a result of the incident. Kilgrave hearings. Kilgrave rumors. Kilgrave conspiracies. Hogarth and her own cases involving Kilgrave victims. 

 

Each time she read Kilgrave, she heard the snap of his neck, loud in her ears, palpable beneath her palms. Feelings of disgust welling up and then dissipating like ash. 

 

She scrolled down and saw that Trish texted her. 

 

_ Hey, how’s it going? _

 

She thought for a long time that all she needed to do to end things was for Kilgrave to die, to be hated and known as the worst person in the world, so that she and everyone else he harmed was vindicated from… victimhood? Validated? 

 

Some things ended, and more things began. 

 

She opened the messenger app to Trish’s chat window. She saw that the last time she messaged her was almost three weeks ago. Three weeks was nothing compared to a year with no contact, but after contacting and working together over Hope Schlottman’s case-

 

_ “You can’t kill me, silly girl.”  _

_ “But Jessica can!” _

 

\- sleeping off a broken rib at her apartment, seeing her unconscious in her apartment with finger marks all over her throat, and riding in her car planning the final confrontation, well, suddenly it felt like she going back to not talking to her for another year. 

 

This can’t be how normal people do things. 

 

Jessica texted back:  _ Another day, another dollar. _

 

The phone pinged when it was sent. It wasn’t as painful as she thought. It was like the tense moment before getting the flu shot and then the needle is out of the shoulder in a second. 

 

A brief look at Trish, triumph welling up-  _ I love you _ \- and then a satisfying snap. 

 

A speedy reply. Was Trish on lunch break? 

 

_ Are you busy earning those dollars nowadays? _

 

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Unexpectedly, but not unsurprisingly, it was Malcolm who saved her. 

 

He closed the door behind him. “It’s me, Jess. Got held up by the landlord. I think they were keeping tabs on this floor.” Malcolm made his way to the bathroom. There was something comforting in the ease in which he was in her space. He was just that trustworthy, because he knew what it felt to be in her shoes. 

 

“Can’t say I blame them. Just waiting for an excuse to kick me out,” she called back. 

 

“Yeah, well, if that happens do you think Hogarth knows someone who does tenant soliciting?” 

 

Jessica scoffed as she walked past him to the bathroom. “I bet she’d jump at the chance for something normal.” 

 

* * *

 

Outside was even colder, despite the sun high in a cloudless sky. There were more people around even for a weekday. Must be winter break, and all the kids are out of college. Or the tourists have arrived to go to the requisite landmarks. Times Square. Ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Visiting Santa at Macy’s like you might see a miracle. Stark Enterprises hosting some kind of weird techno-winter theme park. 

 

For Jessica, nothing beats a crispy croissant and some hot chocolate in the cold. 

 

She let the text message sit in her phone a while longer, pretended to be interested in meeting with Hogarth later. She wondered what kind of cut she’ll get once payroll start figuring out how to account for all those victims and witnesses left over by Kilgrave. Maybe if she pushed a bit, she’ll get a Christmas bonus; Hogarth has been losing that greasy shine lately, probably thinking about how she’ll be alone for the holidays. 

 

She briefly thought she should do something. Maybe talk to Malcolm or Trish about it, or-

 

Her phone rang. Speak of the devil. 

 

“Hi, you’ve reached Jessica,” she spoke into the phone. “She’s not here right now, she’s at the Bahamas getting a manicure.” 

 

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Hogarth said curtly, cutting off her spiel. “Are you available today?”

 

“Well, for starters I like my steak rare and my wine to always be full.” 

 

“I’ll just add it to your tab, then.” 

 

“Wait, what tab-”

 

“Anyway, Jessica, there’s another hearing.” 

 

Suddenly the world became too loud. The traffic roared. The people became suffocating. The hot chocolate tasted too sweet on her tongue. 

 

“For which one?” 

 

“Families who have housed Kilgrave for intermittent times. Some of them may or may not have had a run-in with you.” 

Jessica recalled the three floors of family members who assaulted her when she first saw Kilgrave. She hoped they weren’t suing her for damages; she swore she didn’t give them lasting brain damage. 

 

“Well, family court has threatened several for child abuse. I guess the psychic homewrecker didn’t care for children that much, and they have found several children needed to be hospitalized for neglect. It’s like walking through a minefield without a detector.” 

 

“Yikes,” was Jessica could say. “How am I supposed to help out in this?”

 

“Well, you’re a familiar face to the judge about all this, perhaps lending your voice would help sway the court that all of them are victims from one psychotic manchild and that they are all, before him, good parents.” 

 

Jessica sighed heavily. 

 

“Look, I’m not big on being the ‘Kilgrave’ lawyer, just as how you’re not crazy about being the one who slayed the dragon, but after this the end is in sight.” 

 

“Yeah, maybe for you,” said Jessica. 

 

There was a moment’s pause on the other line. “...Only for the firm. But not for me.” 

 

* * *

 

It was past nightfall when Jessica left the firm. Her phone was dying, and her head felt like it was stuff with cotton. She lingered around reception, waiting for Hogarth, who looked equally as haggard and tired as she was. Somehow, she seemed to have lost some of her bite, making her seem less prickly and more openly vulnerable. 

 

“I can’t believe this was worse than the stockbroker who was grinding down Albert’s arm and a dead husband stuffed in the pantry,” remarked Jessica. 

 

The dark humor, as usual, went over Hogarth’s head. “Family court is always a cesspool of emotions. By the time this is over, social workers everywhere are going to have special seminars on ‘super-power induced family cruelty.’ Jesus, those kids… it’s like they all got out from a cult, and the years of therapy they’ll have to do.” 

 

Jessica looked back at the hallway from where she was in. Some of the families and lawyers lingered there, still, talking in hushed voices and tear-stained faces. She looked away before they could get a look at her, and wondered what she seemed to them. 

 

“At least they’re alive.” 

Hogarth locked eyes with her, and they both shared a meaningful look. “Yes,” she replied. “That is a blessing.” 

 

Jessica glanced at parts of Hogarth’s face. Her cheek. Her throat. She glanced down to look at her hands. 

 

“Got all your stitches out?” 

 

Hogarth’s shoulders stiffened, and some of that old shark bite was back. “Yes, every last bit.” 

 

“Heard Pam is getting only a few months. That’s good, right?” 

 

“It is,” Hogarth replied curtly. “There is much sympathy towards her case, especially after I went to testify. The medical examiner on my person helped clinched it.” 

 

Jessica nodded politely. “Good.” 

 

They stood awkwardly for a moment, before Hogarth hurried away. “I’ll give you a date for when the hearings will be held in court. It probably won’t be long, so clear your schedule.” 

 

“Yippee, just what I wanted for Christmas,” Jessica called back at her. 

 

Outside the building, she checked her phone. Trish texted her a couple hours ago. 

 

_? _

 

Jessica tapped out a reply:  _ Making those dollars _

 

Then her phone died. She rifled through her shoulder bag, and huffed in frustration. She left her charger at home. 

 

She thought about buying one from a corner store, or just jumping home to get wind through her face to clear away the dark words and feelings held behind glass walls and doors. 

 

_ “Do it again, Jessica. I want to see you jump up to that ledge and then back. Let’s see if you can fly!” _

 

Taking the L wouldn’t be so bad. 

 

* * *

 

She bought a charger and holed up in a Starbucks for a while. Hunger gnawed at her, so she got a large gingerbread latte and a ham and cheese sandwich. Treat yo’ self. 

She texted her reply, and plugged in her ear buds to listen to a podcast.

 

_ Hi, this is Trish Talks, and our guests today… _

 

Banter. Banter. Current events plus expert giving opinions. Listener comments and calls. Visiting professional harmonica player. It was relaxing to tune in and listen to Trish’s voice. She knew her long enough to know her opinions and thoughts were genuine. She listened long enough to know when she was forcing herself to be polite even when the tightness in her voice wanted to say how much she disagreed with someone’s opinion on the Avengers. Jessica was inclined to agree with how they didn’t seem unregulated, but that’s the pot calling the kettle black. 

 

She listened to Trish when she walked out of the Starbucks and walked through the streets to look for some real food. She listened to the politics segment, and munched on some beef kebab and garlic rice with the mindlessness of a cow chewing the cud while Trish argued against gentrification in Hell’s Kitchen. Before she knew it, Jessica was listening to Trish’s comedy segment when she ended up being near the bar. 

 

Everything became muted in the background as she walked towards it, on instinct that was fueled by regret and sadness, and no real plan. 

 

Luke’s bar was still under construction. She could see the insides of it, hollowed out and white with new walls and floors. Like her kitchen, the scent of chemicals, paint, and metal drifted from it by the cold wind. 

 

Luke left her on his own two legs, by Claire’s admission. The nurse actually roped her in for coffee and breakfast at a diner, and talked about it. There was much that neither could say, but so much was implied, about the existence of Luke and Jessica, of Claire’s own friend whom she couldn’t name. With enough probing, maybe Jessica could follow up on the rumor, but at the time it was nice to banter and complain over coffee and scrambled eggs. 

 

The bar, empty of cool jazz, dimmed lights, and colorful bottles lining up the shelves, seemed like an empty drawer in the morgue. Like Luke waking out of her bedroom, the bar had its story and character walked out on the street. It might change into something else: a waffle house, a diner, maybe some kind of trendy hot yoga place that’ll drive the prices up the neighborhood. 

 

Jessica turned away, numb from the cold and with only Trish Talks to listen to. 

 

* * *

In front of her door, she held the door knob in her hands, not turning it. She listened intently. A couple arguing upstairs (there’s no Ruben to raise Robyn’s ire. She actually hadn’t heard too much of her, lately). Cars driving down the street. Happy drunks. But nothing from inside her apartment. 

 

No Simpson. No Luke. No Kilgrave skulking about. 

 

A door opened behind her. 

 

“Hey Jessica.” 

 

She glanced behind her. “Going out for a night run, Malcolm?” 

 

“Nah. Felt like ice cream. Want some?” 

 

Jessica thought about the half-finished kitchen, the dark shadows from when her lights still flickering uncertainly, and the cold draught that couldn’t get the smell away from the construction. 

 

Ice cream also triggered a memory. Of sneaking in a couple of ice cream sandwiches for Trish when she got dragged on set, and holing up in the trailer hastily eating them, smirking and sharing secrets. 

 

“Sure. Ice cream sandwich sounds good.” 

 

* * *

Memories moved past her like watching the environment zoom by while in a car. As a kid, she imagined that the shadows between the streetlights held a creature running alongside the car, watching her. Rather than freaking her out, she drew it many times in her journal and notebook, hoping to Tim Burton-fy it. 

 

She was reminded of it whenever she stand still long enough, and it seemed like the world moved by past her, replaying the past events and moving from place to place as though fast-forwarding through a VHS tape. Pause. Rewind. Watch again. 

 

Before it was when under Kilgrave’s thrall, wearing the yellow dress and eating Amatriciana pasta, and a whole bottle of vodka would be the ticket to drowning it out. Reva’s body pushed away from her, the force of her punch going through her like being pushed by a car. That’s two bottles of vodka. Listening to Trish beg her mom to stop. Eating a double cheeseburger out of spite. 

 

Now, there were new memories. Hope Schlottman standing over her parents in the elevator, and the blood still remained in the elevator when she looked up. Simpson quickly snatching her into the facsimile of her childhood room and excitedly saying he rigged a bomb like it was the best solution ever (Kilgrave’s slaves, whom she knocked out, just finished their own hearing; strangely enough, they didn’t seem to look at her in fear when other had, just understated understanding of a shared trauma). A man who stuck shears in his mouth and falling forward. 

 

Looking at Trish, and saying “I love you.” 

 

Triumph and fear, a heady cocktail of revenge obtained. Almost made at Trish’s expense, and the relief of the gambit paying off. Trish talked about it like it was the best plan they ever made, even though there was so much more at stake, so much fear when trying to pretend she was under his thrall again, so much disgust at seeing him about to escort Trish away on the boat. 

 

Jessica wanted to talk about it, if Trish was scared, but the actress brushed it off, focusing more on the victory than the suffering it took to make it. Maybe Jessica was seeing things when she looked at Trish’s hands and her throat, to see if there’s any sign of wavering or nervousness. 

 

Maybe bringing it up would just force her to feel scared. 

 

After all, there were so many times when Jessica was fearful for Trish, no more than three times she almost had her out of her life. 

 

* * *

“Malcolm, here.” 

 

Jessica handed a brown packet over to him later in the week. He took it and carefully felt at its thickness. 

 

“What’s this?” 

 

“Your cut. This is from Hogarth’s payroll, and…” Here it felt a little awkward to say, like trying to acknowledge that she was mistaken or wrong, even though when she did it before it felt like reclaiming a bit of autonomy for herself, even if it’s harmful. 

 

“...and since you are my assistant, this is your payroll, too.” 

 

Malcolm looked at her incredulously, and briefly there was a carefree smile. It was like this was the Malcolm seen in his Facebook profile. Hopeful. Confident. Boyish. Like who you used to be can still shine through the years. 

 

“Thanks, Jessica.” He opened the envelope lip and whistled. “...Should I ask how much is in there?” 

 

“That’s like ten settled court cases in here, and more to come. Those Kilgrave cases are like buckets of chum for the sharks.” 

 

“Don’t you mean to say ‘justice is served’?” countered Malcolm. He placed the packet on the coffee table, looking pleased with himself. “Well, as your assistant, let me keep you up to date on potential cases.” 

 

“Alright, Guy Friday, hold your horses.” 

 

“They’re not all Kilgrave cases.” 

 

“Not up for it at the moment. I got…” 

 

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “You got work already? From Hogarth?” 

 

“She wants me to keep my schedule open, for more court stuff.” 

 

He leaned back. “Oh. Then what about the other cases you were sitting on.” 

 

“My clients haven’t let me know when their spouses are getting out of the house. Too many company parties during the holidays to keep track. Throws off the pattern.” 

 

“Then does that mean you’re free for the holidays?” 

 

Jessica eyed him suspiciously. “Why?” 

 

“I was… thinking about making a little get-together. Before I leave to visit the folks next week.” 

 

“This isn’t some kind of support group thing, is it? I don’t think they’ll be feeling the holiday spirit with me around.” 

 

“No, they got their own things to do. Just wondered if you might be down for something.” 

 

Jessica tapped her fingers, restlessly. “Doing what?” 

 

“Nothing much. Grab some food. Watch some Christmas movies. You can grab some mulled wine and I’ll get some ginger ale.” 

 

“Mulled wine? Is that even good?”

 

Malcolm shrugged. “It’s seasonal.” 

 

Before she could snap back with something sarcastic, she actually replied, “I’ll think about it.” 

 

* * *

A phone call. Caller ID said “Trish.” 

 

Jessica let it ring a few times, staring at the screen. She pressed the button. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

Silence on the other line. “Wow,” after a while. “You actually picked up.” 

 

Jessica winced, although she doesn’t think there was much accusation in Trish’s tone. 

 

“Yeah, well... here I am.” The excuse died on her lips. 

 

“Yeah.” Some awkward silence. 

 

“So Jessica,” continued Trish. “I was wondering, um, if you’re free tonight?”

 

Jessica’s mind frantically races. No clients. No Hogarth. No way out of it. “Yeah, I guess.” 

 

“Cool. Want to come over? It’s been a while since we had dinner and, you know, catch up.” 

 

_ Dinner means free food. _

 

“Okay,” Jessica relented. “But like, promise me that you won’t make Malcolm go on grocery runs for me. I’m a lousy cook, I don’t know what to do with kale and crunchy peanut butter.” 

 

“Well, if you want I can give you a cookbook about all that. Fifteen minute easy cooking, when Jamie Oliver was on my show and-” 

 

“Yeah, well, it’s weird that all of a sudden you and Malcolm text each other.” 

 

A pointed silence. “Well, he is actually there to check up on you when you’re not around to… check up on yourself.”

 

_ Ah, there’s that bitterness patented by mom. _

 

“I guess friendships can happen when two people bury a body together,” joked Jessica.  

 

“Eugh.” 

 

“Sorry, that was too soon.” 

 

“So are you coming?” 

 

“Yeah, I’ll drop in.” 

 

With that she hung up, thinking the conversation over.

 

_ Wait. I should say what time… nah it’ll be a surprise. _

 

* * *

She texted at around 7 pm, which she assumed was a normal time for people to drop by, that she’s at the apartment. Clutching the package close to her body, she jumped up several stories up Trish’s building. 

 

Clinging on the ledge with one hand was harder than she thought. 

 

The outside door opened. “What-” began Trish as she hauled Jessica up. “-the heck!” 

 

Jessica held up the package with both hands. “Merry Christmas.”

 

Trish took it and examined it as though not believing what she was holding. “I have a doorman who can let you in.” 

 

“This was faster,” replied Jessica, dusting off her pants. 

 

Trish sighed, exasperated. Now that she got a good look at her, Jessica saw that she was in sweatpants and hoodie, sweat dripping down her face, her cheeks aglow. 

 

“Still working out on that Krav Maga, or whatever it’s called?” 

 

“Yeah, and lucky for you the trainer just left like a normal person who doesn’t see guests apparate on their patio.” 

 

“Yeah, but you love me for it.” 

 

As soon as those words were uttered, it was Jessica’s turn to sweat. 


End file.
